Honoring The Fallen
by Bookwrm389
Summary: "In Spargus, we believe in a little thing called honoring the fallen. And maybe it's my imagination, chili pepper, but lately it seems like you're doing everything you can to forget about Damas." Jak 3/Jak X spoilers.


_A.N. I know that Jak basically announced his heritage at the end of Jak 3, but for the sake of this story, I'm assuming that he didn't bother to tell anyone. This is another one of my scenes-that-could-have-been, and my reasoning for the drastic changes in Jak's look and attitude between Jak 3 and Jak X. By the way, has anyone noticed that when you're racing in Jak X, he sometimes says "This is for Damas!" Yeah, that's where this came from._

Honoring The Fallen

Jak had to hand it to Sig. The man had excellent timing. Just when their Kras racing team was listing behind and morale was at its lowest, there he was, ready to put himself on the frontline for them despite the risk involved and despite having only held the Spargus throne for three months. And thanks to his skill in the last couple of races, they were still hanging in there, and Sig couldn't have been smugger if he tried. It must be a Wastelander thing to come sauntering in at the last possible second, ready to crush the enemies and save the day.

_An explosion right above his head as the Slam Dozer busted through a wall of debris and knocked the Dark Maker satellites out of the air. A man with a face weathered by years of fighting in the desert leaning out of the driver's seat haughtily. _

_Someone call for an army...?_

Jak blinked and shook the memory from his head. He grunted as he shifted position on his back under the racing car. He would never understand how Keira could do this for eight to nine hours a day. Jak scrubbed his eyes wearily, longing to just curl up on the tattered, grease-stained couch in the corner and sleep, but he dared not shirk the maintenance when the stakes were so high. Besides, it wasn't like he would be able to sleep. Kras City was a noisy place even at this late hour with all the races going on, both official and otherwise. It made it hard to think, which could be both a blessing and a curse.

But still, it would be so _easy_ to get caught up in the sheer _excitement _of this place, the heart-pounding adrenaline rush that came with every precarious turn in the track, every deafening explosion and roar of the crowd. It was like an addiction to him now...and it was only when the thrill died down that Jak realized how much he depended on those exhilarating, white-knuckle moments to block out everything he _didn't _want to feel. Like how much he actually _loathed _this pointless bloodshed or how the city's grimy, sewage-ridden streets made his skin crawl. How it made him yearn for the warm, windswept dunes of sand where he killed only when necessary and the air and ocean weren't tainted by humanity's filth. Where he could savor the simple joy of _living_.

_I'd say you've made a pretty good life here..._

_You too, must make a life, Jak. Take your destiny into your own hands..._

The wrench clattered from Jak's hand, and he shoved himself out from under the car violently, wincing when cramped muscles made their presence known. Jak took a deep breath and shuddered at the stink of metal and oil. All of a sudden, the garage was just too damn claustrophobic. He had to get _out_. He had to _do _something. Maybe if he took a cruise around the city, he would run into a couple of Mizo's cronies and he could eliminate that much more of the competition...

"There you are, cherry. I was startin' to wonder if you'd gone and taken off somewhere."

Jak raised his head when Sig came striding up. He exhaled softly. "Another couple of minutes and that might've been the case," he admitted, stuffing Keira's tools back in the toolbox. But the casual act wasn't fooling either of them. Jak had been avoiding Sig ever since he set foot in Kras City, his gratitude dampened by the knowledge that the Wastelander wasn't only here for the races. His assumption was only confirmed when Sig paced around the car and leaned over him with a dark scowl like a sand..._thunder_storm building up.

"So," Sig said quietly, "mind tellin' me why you skipped out on Spargus not a week after you took down that Dark Maker?"

_Gets right to the point, doesn't he?_ Jak thought with a grimace. "Does it matter?"

"Hell yeah, it does," Sig said at once. "Look, like it or not, you're a Wastelander now, and that's not the kind of thing you just turn your back on. You've got a duty to your city and your comrades. After all this time, I really thought we meant something to you. Or was that only for as long as it was convenient?"

Jak stood up, wishing he had just a few more inches of height on Sig. "I don't need to explain myself to you," he said coolly. "I never made any promises about staying in Spargus. Besides, the world is saved, like you said. I think I've earned a break."

"Bullshit," Sig snapped, slicing the air with his hand. "The Jak I knew never needed a _break _from anything. He could handle whatever the world threw at him! But something happened to that Jak during the last battle, didn't it? Sorry cherry, but I ain't leavin' until I figure it out and fix this."

The sneer that found its way to Jak's face was filled with bitter humor. He snatched up the toolbox and brought it to the workbench where he slammed it down. "You just assume it's something that _can_ be fixed," he said cynically.

"What're you runnin' from?"

"_Running?_" Jak blurted out, his temper flaring dangerously. "I'm not running from anything!"

"That's not what it looks like to me," Sig told him. He stepped closer, and Jak instinctively faced him head on. "Why don't you tell me the truth, Jak? We're friends, aren't we? So talk! Tell me why you don't wear your Precursor armor anymore. Or how about why you race like there's no tomorrow, or why you sliced off all your hair so you look like some townie and not a Wastelander."

_Because HE was the last one to cut my hair, and every time I looked in the mirror, I saw HIM instead of me. And whenever I'm on that track and I'm about to kill, I picture Kor and Veger and Praxis and every worthless bastard that ever had a hand in keeping us apart...and I know it's the only revenge I'll ever get._

"Let me tell you something about the Wastelanders, Jak," Sig said, uncharacteristically solemn as he looked off into the distance. "In Spargus, we believe in a little thing called _honoring the fallen_. And I'm not talkin' some weepy funeral and a few flowers either. When a Wastelander passes on, their ashes are returned to the desert and those of us who live on show our respect by actively _remembering_ what they accomplished. And maybe it's my imagination, chili pepper...but lately it seems like you're doing everything you can to forget about Damas."

Jak's knuckles went white from gripping the workbench so hard. "Gee, what gave it away, Sig?" he said in a lethal tone. "The fact that I left Spargus on the other side of the world or the fact that I'm considering laying you out for saying his name in front of me?"

To his utter disgust, Sig actually looked at him in pity. "You can't scare me away, Jak. And believe it or not, you're not the only one who's hurtin'. I knew Damas for a lot longer than you."

Jak turned abruptly and started to walk away, unable to bear the pain of this conversation any longer. "Sorry for your loss, but if it's all the same, I'd rather not talk about it. _Ever_."

All at once, Sig seized his arm and swung him back around. "Oh, you're _going _to talk about it! You and me both are gonna have a nice long chat until we get all that pain out where it can't hurt us!"

"What do you _want _from me, Sig?" Jak erupted, flinging his hand off.

"I want you to quit being a brat and own up to the real issue staring us both in the face, _Mar!_"

Jak's entire world ground to a halt. He backed away, pale and shaken, caught off guard not only by the name but how _right _it sounded. Sig seemed equally taken aback by his reaction, but his bleak smile was wholly satisfied. "So Daxter _was_ tellin' the truth. And here I thought it was another of his drunken rants."

"It was," Jak said shortly. He crossed his arms, refusing to meet Sig's eyes. "I'm too old to be Damas' son, we both know that."

"That's what I told chili pepper," Sig informed him. "And he countered by whipping a little trinket out of your jacket that's identical to the one Damas once carried."

"Another fluke. We got that off a kid in Haven City..."

"...who turned out to be your younger self that was sent back in time, grew up, and then got sent back to _this _time so he could lay the smackdown on the metalhead leader," Sig said in triumph, seeming to enjoy Jak's stunned look. "Oh yeah, he told me about that too. And let me tell you, up until I talked to Keira and Samos, it still seemed like a crazy story. Sure does explain a lot though."

"Next time we race, remind me to strap him to the hood," Jak muttered vindictively.

"What I can't understand," Sig went on with a touch of affront, "is why you didn't bother to _tell_ anyone, especially when you _know _I've been looking for his son all this time! Don't you think that's somethin' _I'd_ like to know?"

"It doesn't matter!" Jak burst out. He poked Sig squarely in the chest. "I'm not the boy he asked you to find, not anymore. Do you really think Damas would have welcomed me with open arms?"

"That's hardly relevant when you never even gave him a _chance_ to!"

"_Because I didn't realize the truth until it was too late!_" Jak bellowed, and he knew by the way Sig jumped back in alarm that his darker self was too close to the surface. It was always his eyes that changed first. Jak spun around and braced one hand heavily on the wall, breathing deeply, fighting once again to suppress that savage part of him. It was one thing to cut lose during the races, to let bloodlust sharpen his instincts and give him an edge, but not _here_, not when letting it out would put his friends in danger.

Not that they weren't _already_ in danger, but still...

An overlarge hand gripped his arm, supporting, and Jak had to brutally clamp down on the urge to strike it away. "_Easy_, Jak. Take it easy. Now just what did you mean by that?"

Jak stilled. "Daxter didn't tell you?" he murmured. "About what happened when Damas died?"

"He only told me about you and the kid being one and the same," Sig clarified, and when Jak met his eyes again, the previous animosity had been replaced by confusion. "I thought...I thought you _knew _it from the beginning, that you'd kept that secret from Damas the entire time you were in the Wasteland."

_Promise me you'll find my son. He's wearing an amulet just like it, a symbol of our lineage..._

Jak shook his head hopelessly, bile rising in his throat at the memory. "I knew the kid we sent to the past was me," he rasped. "It wasn't until Damas was dying in my arms that I found out the kid was also his son."

"Oh, _hell_," Sig swore under his breath. "And...and he never found out, not even at the end? He never knew?"

_Oh, and he never knew. How delightful..._

Jak staggered away and sank down on the lumpy couch, doubled over with his forehead pressed to his folded hands. "I should have _said_ something," he whispered. "I should have said _anything_, even if it was just to tell him that his son was safe. And he _asked _me, Sig! With his last breath, he asked me to find Mar, he gave me the seal...and it was only right at that moment when I realized what he was to me, what _I _was to _him_. Then he was gone and...and I've never felt so _worthless _in my life!"

"I think you mean 'heartbroken', cherry," Sig said gently.

Jak bit back a painful sob, refusing to cry in front of the other man. Once he'd reigned in his emotions, he let out a drained sigh, staring at the floor hollowly. "I miss him," he admitted pathetically.

"You and me both," Sig muttered as he joined him on the couch, sounding more tired than Jak had ever heard. "Maybe not for the same reasons, but it amounts to the same thing. It's freakin' weird to sit on that throne and know he's not gonna come striding in and yell at me to get my ass outta his chair."

Jak smirked darkly. He glanced sideways, reminded of a question he hadn't gotten around to asking. "He made you his heir," he said slowly. "And he asked _you _to find his son in Haven. That...that wasn't just because you're one of the best fighters, was it? What were you to him?"

"Ha, where to begin with _that _one?" Sig chortled. He tipped his head back, lips quirking in nostalgia. "Best friend and fellow delinquent when we were kids. Brother-in-arms and bodyguard when he ruled Haven. Then Praxis exiled him and everyone loyal to him, and while Damas worked on keeping his people together and getting Spargus built, I just helped him any way I could. As long as I can remember, it's been that way. He would lead, I would follow. Kinda like you and Daxter, actually."

For probably the third time in his life, Jak found himself revamping his opinion of Sig. Somehow, he could see it. He could see Damas walking the streets of Haven as its ruler with Sig at his shoulder, a watchful and trusted presence. His heart ached at the image, and part of him longed for more, wanting to _know _Damas as Sig had known him no matter how painful it was to hear. And even if reminiscing wouldn't bring Damas back...maybe talking wasn't such a bad thing, if it could make him feel just a little less empty.

"Hey," Sig said with a grin, tapping his arm lightly. "Wanna get the hell out of here and go get a drink? Hear about Damas in his glory days?"

"...yeah," Jak said after a moment, then more strongly. "Yeah, I'd like that. But let's walk. I've had enough driving today."

Sig nodded in satisfaction, his self-appointed mission apparently accomplished. But he gave Jak a strange look as they rose and headed for the door of the garage, and Jak frowned slightly, tilting his head. "What?"

"Nothin'," Sig said warmly. He clapped Jak's shoulder and squeezed gently, a gesture that should have seemed patronizing and yet wasn't. "I just can't believe I finally found you, kid," he whispered.

Jak blinked and he ducked his head quickly, pleased and a little embarrassed at the rare affection in Sig's tone. As the two Wastelanders left the garage behind and strode out into the hazy night, trading jibes like old comrades, Jak wondered fleetingly if his adoptive uncle back in Sandover would be jealous.


End file.
